


Your Stars Remain

by chaos_ineffable



Series: Good Omens 30th Anniversary [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Character Study, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Good Omens 30th Anniversary, M/M, Post-Canon, Soft Crowley (Good Omens), Stargazing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:33:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23988166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaos_ineffable/pseuds/chaos_ineffable
Summary: Crowley lost his stars when he Fell. He asked the wrong questions and the memories of his stars burned away with his halo. It takes six thousand years, but Aziraphale finds a way to give them back.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Good Omens 30th Anniversary [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1729684
Comments: 3
Kudos: 79





	Your Stars Remain

**Author's Note:**

> I know that the cosmic B flat is made by blackholes but I'm choosing to ignore that for the sake of this story. 
> 
> The prompt for this fic is 'In the Beginning'. I'm going to try and post the rest of the stories on time after I get the second posted today but considering time isn't real, I make no promises.

There is something to be said about the stars. Something in the way they destroy themselves and each other and everything around them and yet are still so beautiful. Something about their ability to time travel, to die but still exist light-years away.

There are many things to say about the stars when it comes down to it. Lessons and myths and poetry. Crowley could have said it all, once a long time ago. He could have explained every mystery, written every poem, told every story about the stars’ origins. He created them, after all. It would only make sense that he would know everything about them.

He loved his stars, loved the constant push and pull of them, the never-ending need to shine and absorb and explode. He still loves them, all these thousands of years later, but… well, After the War and his plummet into Hell, he can’t really remember his stars anymore.

That was the cruelest trick She played on the angels who Fell. Letting them keep their memories of Creation, of helping Her give life to the Universe but taking away the specifics of what they had Created. 

He knew he had created the stars. He remembers what it felt like to hold a red giant in the palm of his hand and feed it his essence until it exploded with color. He remembers the silence of the void when he first stepped up to his cosmic pallet and spread out the stars, the wonder that filled him when the stars began to sing, filling the silence with their harmonized B flat.

Sometimes, he drives to an empty field far enough from any light sources to look at the stars, tries to pinpoint which ones he made. Because that’s the cruel part, isn’t it? He remembers making the stars, remembers pouring parts of himself into them, giving as much Love and Grace as he could spare to make them beautiful and good enough for Her. And then he asked the wrong questions and his memories of his stars burned up with his halo.

He didn’t realize what he had lost at first. It took him a while to get over the loss of Her Grace, to learn how to handle the fury and bitterness that coiled deep in his belly and struck out at even the tiniest of inconveniences. 

When he was sent to Eden, told only to “cause some trouble”, he was more than happy to comply. The open skies and soft earth of The Garden were better than Hell any day.

He didn’t mean to tempt Eve into eating the apple. The Tree was there and she was hungry. Crowley didn’t know it was forbidden until after the fact, honest. He was a little surprised how easy it had been, though. He had seen the angel guarding the Eastern gate from time to time. Surely, he should have been there to thwart Crowley’s wily accident?

The angel surprised him again on the wall. He had expected a threat of smiting, at the very least. But the thought of destroying a demon didn’t seem to cross this angel’s mind. He was just concerned about his sword because he had given the flaming thing away! Just handed it over, no questions asked! 

Crowley would realize, nearly a thousand years later, that this was the moment he had fallen for the bumbling bastard of an angel. At that moment, though, the only thought he could give the bubbling warmth in his gut was _Oh, I like this one._

Two days after Adam and Eve left The Garden, Crowley was stretched out on the grass, staring up at the night sky. There was no light pollution at this point in time unless one counted the holy glow of the angel perched on the wall a few dozen feet away, so the swirling purples and reds of the universe were on full display. He tried to locate some of his stars, reached out with his singed essence to find anything that matched, but there was nothing. His stars didn’t recognize him, didn’t know this new form he had been forced into. 

He stopped breathing, stopped his heart, quieted everything around him, everything in him until he could only hear the stars. Or should have been able to hear them. But there was only the awful emptiness of absent sound. 

He didn’t even realize he was crying until Aziraphale knelt beside him, concern etched into his brow, and tried to comfort him. But the angel did not know what was wrong and Crowley wasn’t about to tell him.

It took him two thousand years to recover enough to look at the stars again. It was another three thousand before the sight of the night sky didn’t make him cry.

Then Armageddon came and went and the world kept turning and the stars remained.

He sits, now, in an empty field. A tartan blanket is spread out beneath him, a comfortable alternative to dirt and rocks. A picnic basket, half-full of cherry frangipane and unopened wine, is set behind him and out of the way. A fussy angel with rolled-up sleeves and cherry-stained lips sits beside him.

They both stare up at the stars.

“You had a hand in them, didn’t you, darling?” Aziraphale asks, taking one of Crowley’s hands and slipping their fingers together.

“Yeah, I did.” He knows what is coming next. Knows that Aziraphale has been wanting to ask for millennia, ever since he found Crowley crying under the stars in Eden.

“How did you make them?”

It’s not quite the question Crowley is expecting but it is one he is happy to answer. “A lot of gas, a few miracles, and a touch of Grace, all balled up into a tiny explosion and hung in just the right place to keep them burning for a few millennia.”

“They’re beautiful, my dear. How many did you make?”

Crowley lets out a heavy breath and squeezes Aziraphale’s fingers a little harder than he means to. He doesn’t want to answer. Doesn’t want to deal with the embarrassment and pity that the truth will cause. But he’s never been able to lie to Aziraphale. He lets his gaze trace the curve of a deep red galaxy and shrugs, humming a noncommittal sound.

Aziraphale leans towards him, just enough to brush shoulders. He’s warm and Crowley wants to bury himself in the angel’s soft curves. “Perhaps you can show me a few one of these days. Pop up there and give me a tour of your Creations.”

The thought brings tears to Crowley’s eyes and he blinks hard to banish them. “We are due a vacation. We could celebrate our anniversary while we’re up there. Drink wine on one of Jupiter’s moons.”

“Eat cake on Alpha Centauri. Oh, we could fly around a black hole! I’ve always wanted to see an event horizon.”

“We can listen to the stars, angel. You could harmonize with them even, as long as you can hit a perfect B flat.”

Aziraphale is glowing with excitement. “Oh really? That does sound wonderful. Of course, you will have to sing with me, dear. I would feel quite silly singing to the stars by myself.”

Crowley’s lazy grin stiffens into a grimace. “Sorry, angel, ‘fraid not. Can’t sing with the stars.”

“Whatever do you mean, Crowley? You have a lovely voice.” Aziraphale’s tone promises a torrent of compliments if Crowley doesn’t stop hating on himself right this instant.

Crowley sighs and rests his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder, rubbing his cheek against the worn fabric of his shirt. “I can’t hear them anymore, angel. When I Fell-” he takes a breath to keep his voice from breaking. It breaks anyway. “my soul burned. My essence, it’s not- it’s not whole anymore. It’s charred and singed and more ash than demon. The bits of me that keep the stars together, they don’t recognize what I’ve become. I don’t resonate with them anymore. Don’t even know which ones I made.”

He refuses to look at Aziraphale. He doesn’t need the angel’s pity. Not now. Not after he’s spent six thousand years coming to terms with what he lost.

They are quiet for a long time. Crowley keeps his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder, their fingers still entwined. He strokes his thumb over Aziraphale’s knuckles and considers opening that bottle of wine.

He’s almost convinced himself to reach back and grab it when Aziraphale moves. He scooches closer until they are pressed together from shoulder to knee and releases Crowley’s hand, instead wrapping that arm around Crowley’s shoulders to pull him ever closer. Then he points to the sky and whispers, “That one, just to the left of the moon. Do you see it?

Crowley follows Aziraphale’s finger and nods, unsure what the angel is on about.

“That’s one of yours, dearest.”

Crowley inhales, his chest jolting with the sharpness of it. “What?” His voice is soft, barely audible in the stillness surrounding them.

“Your essence may be a bit singed but it has hardly changed, my dear,” Aziraphale explains, the hand around Crowley’s shoulders beginning to fiddle with the collar of Crowley’s shirt, revealing his nerves. “It burns so bright up there. It’s impossible to miss once I’m looking for it.” He turns to Crowley, presses a kiss to the top of the demon’s head. “You’re so beautiful, my love.”

Crowley could cry. It takes him a moment to realize that he already is. He buries his face in Aziraphale’s neck, clings to the angel with both arms, and whimpers into his skin, “Thank you, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale lets him cry, holds him close, and comforts him with a hand in his hair. When the demon pulls away and wipes his eyes, Aziraphale smiles. “Are you alright, dearest?”

“Yeah, angel, I’m alright.” Crowley smiles back before turning to the stars. “Could you…” He hesitates for just a moment. Aziraphale holds him a little tighter and makes an encouraging sound. Crowley breathes deep and continues, “Could you show me the rest of them?”

Aziraphale beams. “Of course, my dear.”

They sit there for the rest of the night. Aziraphale’s voice is so full of love as he explains the placement of Crowley’s stars that the demon thinks he could be warmed by that voice alone.

He remembers every star Aziraphale points out, marks its placement in his mind, and for the first time in six thousand years, he does not dread looking at a night sky full of stars. 

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think in the comments! Thanks for reading!


End file.
